Reasons Why
by ladyeagle117
Summary: Because life is not made of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, or years, but of moments. Quick BRo one-shots, episode by episode. M for language.
1. Pilot

He spots her five minutes before Ted walks into the bar. Corner booth. Green turtleneck, dirty martini, and piercing eyes. She catches him staring. A little smirk. She rolls her eyes and he knows in that instant that she can see right through him. A provocatively raised eyebrow and a devilish grin. She chuckles, shakes her head, and turns back to her friends. He'll bide his time. She's clever, but he's always loved a challenge. Victory will be that much sweeter. He knows exactly what he'd like to do to her.

But then he catches the look in Ted's eyes. That half-crazed, _Hey-I-Love-You-Let's-Have-Babies-And-Grow-Old-Together _look. "See that girl?"

See her? In his mind, he's already undressed her, explored every inch of the soft skin hidden beneath that turtleneck, and is halfway out her door in the cold, grey half-light that precedes dawn. He's nearly decided on an approach when she gets up for her second dirty martini and Ted watches the rest of his life flash before his eyes. "Oh yeah. You just know she likes it dirty."

He can see it in those clear blue eyes, in the tantalizing glimmer of hidden truths flashing in the fluorescent light. But Ted is his bro, and he won't trade that for one night, no matter how desperately he wants her. Besides, her tearstained friend is a sure thing. He already knows this girl is way too much for Ted to handle. He may get another chance yet. "Go say hi."

He goes home with the tearstained friend, kisses the watery mascara from her cheeks, and does all the things he longs to do to the clever, challenging girl with the piercing eyes that see right through his suit and his smile.

* * *

Ted told her that story the night of their wedding when he thought they were out of earshot, about the first, fateful words she'd never heard. She chuckled, shook her head, and shot him a little smirk above the crowd. A provocatively raised eyebrow, a devilish grin, and a silent prayer of thanks. She assumed Ted was their best man because of thirteen years of friendship, a three year old pact, and one dark night in the back seat of a limousine. Only he knew the real reason. Because, nine years ago Ted fell for her, head over heels in love at first sight, and kept Barney from making the biggest mistake of his life.


	2. Purple Giraffe

The vinyl bench always felt bigger when he was sharing with Ted. The only words they've exchanged outside of his favorite game are hellos, but there she is, inches away, so close her leg accidentally brushes his when she crosses them. Icy gulps of beer as he tries to ignore an involuntary shudder. The conversation drifts to the stranger at the bar, straddled by his most recent conquest. "What does he have that I don't?"

"A date tonight." She doesn't miss a beat and he nearly drops his beer.

"Rewind and repeat."

"A date tonight." This time she beams, all shining teeth and brimming confidence. She revels in his momentary, stunned silence and, suddenly, he's intrigued. A challenge indeed. Who is this girl?

"I'm not sure I like her." But he can't keep a smile from splitting his face. A playful shrug, searching eyes staring down his soul. The table erupts. She shrugs again and mouths, "Come on." Half a smile. A wink.

Because they both know it's not true, because he's never met anyone who can keep up, and because she doesn't miss a beat. She uncrosses her legs, brushing his own, and he covers the shudder with a laugh as she leaves to get the next round. He watches her go, still a little stunned, and unable to shake the feeling he's overlooked something important.

Barney can't hear her at the bar, playing his favorite game, but as she sits back down, Ted knows, deep in a hidden corner of his heart that can still see through the haze of love and pipe dreams and sweet smelling perfume, that there are an extra six inches of untouched vinyl on either side of that bench, and that, when she brushes Barney's thigh crossing her legs, she steals a glance to her right and he laughs just a little too loudly to be totally convincing.


	3. Return of the Shirt

He beckons from across the table, the evil glint in his eye nearly hidden by a furrowed brow and mischievous sneer. A single, tantalizing finger. Calling. Calling. The irresistible pull of a challenge, as her common sense thrashes against the bonds of insanity. "Step into my web." She knows she's fighting a losing battle.

* * *

Indignant, she forces her mouth to form words against her will as the hot dog stand mocks her in the background. City Hall indeed. She can still feel the pull, the dark desire, his insuppressible, insidious voice invading her mind. "You're not a real journalist. You do the little fluff pieces at the end of the news." She can't help herself. It slips out. A little part of her relishes the thrill long before she can bring herself to be horrified.

* * *

"There she is. Is it cold in here? Because I can kind of see Robin's nickels." A silent chuckle. "And now for your next challenge..."

"There's not going to be a next challenge." Mocking hurt flashes in those clear blue eyes. But he is wrong, no matter how tempting his dark draw may be, and those piercing eyes can't possibly see right through her. Warm wet breath tickles her ear and she's trapped, trapped in a twisted web of flawed logic and exhilarating deceit.

"I've got to get back to work." He catches her by the door, oozing curiosity and trepidation. Because he knows that she knows he's toying with her, feeling her out and finding her limits. A single raised eyebrow and a coy smile. "Baby's gonnna think about it." And she knows that he knows she's already decided. Because she can't resist a challenge and because at least someone will be watching.


	4. The Matchmaker

Lily and Marshall are half-an-hour late. So there they are, alone in the booth. He's not really listening to what she's saying. Something about a monkey loose in the station, maybe. Or was it a weasel? At this point, it doesn't really matter. Because he can still hear that voice in the back of his mind. Just before she threatened him and he ran for his life – "You deserve more." A little part of him cringes, the same corner where he buries the pain, the disgust, the self-loathing, the one he drowns in scotch and soda every night. That little part of him hopes she's right, but knows she isn't.

Robin knew something was wrong the moment he walked in, could see the doubt eating away at him, and knew just as quickly he wouldn't acknowledge it. So she ordered him another scotch and launched into the story about the monkey or the weasel or whatever, pretending she hadn't noticed. Because she's never seen him like this. No one has.

He's lost in her brilliant smile, the warm laugh that fills him up and empties him all at once, because that little part of him knows he doesn't deserve even this. Especially not this. With cheeks dusted pink, happiness etched in a furrowed brow, her eyes overflow with concern and the gentle touch on his forearm lingers just a little too long to hide her newfound knowledge.

Lily and Marshall arrive, completely oblivious even though it was so immediately obvious to her.

* * *

They escape the apartment together. "We're going to make crop circles." The door slams shut. Piercing eyes laced with worry meet his own. He looks away too quickly.

"So...if you want...I know a guy with a riding mower." A cheeky grin and the promise of adventure. "What do you say? Crop circles in Central Park. Maybe I'll get called in break the story."

He chuckles. No. He really doesn't deserve this.


	5. The Duel

** So, I never really paid attention to the episode titles until I started re-watching them for this fic, just like I missed a lot of the brilliant subtleties my first time through. In this case at least, it seemed to reflect the B-plot just as well as the A-plot. On a completely different note, I'm writing a bit outside my usual style here, and if the "because" fragments are getting a little grating for me I'm sure they're bugging some of you too. But I swear there's an endgame here. Please stick with it. Comments, positive or negative, on absolutely anything would be greatly appreciated. Thank you and happy holidays!**

The gauntlet is thrown. "The fake emergency call? That is the lamest, most pathetic cop-out in the book. I expected more from you Barney." It clatters to the ground in the silence between them, echoing the clash of metal on cobblestone.

"Well, stay tuned. I'm working on some stuff. But, in the meantime, wish me luck." Because he's never been good at saying no, especially to a woman, but Barney Stinson never picks a fight he's not absolutely certain he can win.

She fires. A single shot, a preemptive strike, because she knows the best defense is a good offense and if she doesn't catch him on his heels, she doesn't stand a chance. "Hi there...sexy."

A long pause. A table away, he tries to marshal his scattered wits. It takes just long enough for her to be sure she got to him. Hit.

* * *

The counterstrike is hours in the making, plotted down to the minute with several contingencies. He has a plan for every possible outcome. Because this is war, and if he is going to win he needs to get her right where he wants her.

"For the record, your little Lemon Law is a symbol of everything that's wrong with our no-attention-span society." Game.

"No. Wrong. Lemon Law's awesome."

"It takes longer than five minutes to really get to know someone." He is so consumed with strategy he can't tell she's talking about him rather than to him. "You keep giving up on people so quickly you could miss out on something great." Because that first night, five minutes before Ted walked in, she knew his type and if it hadn't been for Ted, she never would have given him a second chance. But he doesn't see it, because to him it's all a game.

"Okay. You're on a blind date. Sitting across the table is...that guy. You really think it will take more than five minutes to realize there will be no date number two?" He presses all the right buttons, can see the cogs turning in her mind. He knows her because he knows himself, and he knows exactly what's coming next. Set.

"Yes I do. For all I know, that guy's my soul mate." He still can't tell she's only half being stubborn and, at this point, neither can she. Chalk it up to the fog of war.

Match. He fires, because he can finally see the whites of his enemy's eyes. "Ohhohoh. Bad move, Scherbatsky." He leans across the bar, flush with victory. "Hi...have you met Robin?"

* * *

He picks her up on the way to the hospital because there's an unspoken truce until they're sure Lily's okay and their little contest doesn't seem so petty anymore, and because, when she calls him with the news, there's an edge in her voice that sounds more like fear than battle-tested steel. She tells him she needs a ride because all the flying saucers have burglar alarms and he takes her word for it. The cabbie knows how to get there.

* * *

Their ceasefire ends as quickly as it begins and he lands a hit before she realizes the bullets are flying. Staggering, she tries to regain lost ground. Then Ted tells her to let him have this one and she does. Because, even though he thinks he's won, this is only a skirmish in their private war of wills. She knows it isn't surrender. Just a tactical retreat.


	6. Belly Full of Turkey

Speechless. She's never speechless. She's a reporter. She talks for a living. Without words and a knack for thinking on her feet she's out on the street faster than he's in a stranger's bed. And yet, frozen to the spot in a homeless shelter's kitchen, she flounders, struggling to choke out something, anything. Because he's standing there, bold as brass in a grease stained apron and Hungry Hands t-shirt. A smirk, a nod, a silent, "Yeah I did." She loses track of the conversation for a second, preoccupied. Because she's usually such an intuitive judge of people and she's just been blindsided.

"Man. The way the faces of the less fortunate light up when you give them a hot, nutritious meal. Is there a better feeling on Earth?" His mouth says one thing, but his eyes are still taunting her.

"Yesterday, you said the best feeling on Earth was getting your toes sucked. And then you requested a high five...with your foot." A weak recovery, but she's still a little shell-shocked.

* * *

In a way, the strip club buffet is comforting because she expects it of him. Besides, it's not like this is really Thanksgiving anyway. November? Please.

But she can't quite shake the needling doubt, the nagging notion that maybe she's not as good a judge of character as she thinks. Because, despite the time sheet and the feigned indifference, she's certain you can't see their side of the stage from the front door, and when he stands and winks, announcing that Daddy needs some dessert, instead of finding Destiny he walks purposefully over to the entrance and greets Walter by name.


	7. The Wedding

The phone rings. 3 AM. He's outside the bar, nursing a scotch and a post-coital cigarette. She's sorry, but Lily is busy and she can't talk to Ted and she wasn't sure who else to call. Her voice is hard. He can hear her jaw clenching through the phone.

4 AM. A shooting range in Brooklyn. He's less surprised by her skill with a nine millimeter than by the red eyes and smeared makeup. But the tears are gone now and he doesn't say anything because she's on fire, writhing at the stake, and jumping in to save her will only get him burned. So he stands in silence as she explains how it's done, then trades his flask for her Beretta and squeezes off a few rounds. He's a terrible shot. He hands her back the pistol because she needs it more than he does.

6 AM. A diner oozing grease and unsavory characters. She eats her eggs in silence, gulping coffee, still a little drunk and burning. He pays more attention to his pancakes than is strictly necessary, because this is her own private war, one he can't comprehend, and anything he says will make it worse. She just needs him there to keep her from fanning the flames. He reaches for the syrup and checks to make sure she isn't crying.

8 AM. He drops her off at work, still sizzling and smoking. The door shuts behind her and thunder rolls. It starts to rain.


	8. Zip Zip Zip

She fights dirty and, until now, he assumes she does it on purpose, the way he does with schemes and lying eyes and sleight of hand. All cheap perfume and expensive scotch, sultry smiles and perfect timing. But the look on her face tells him he's reading more than just the signals wrong. He's never suited up so quickly in his life.

A tentative glance in her direction, straightening his tie, and suddenly he wants her more now than ever. Because she's biting her lip and studying his shoes, totally oblivious.

"So Ted didn't care that you wanted to make a move on me?"

"Didn't care at all." He's curious, a little confused. An overt, searching stare. As if he can find the missing piece. The embers start to smolder again. "Ooh." Because now it all makes sense. "Ooooh." The fiery eyes, the desperate phone call, the shiny new scars that no one else can see.

"What?"

"You like Ted." Fact.

"I didn't say that I liked Ted." Fact. But she blurts it out too quickly.

"You like Ted...wow. This is huge." He can only hope mocking accusations helps soften the blow a little. Truth hurts.

"Barney, I don't like Ted. He's moved on and I'm really happy for him." Her voice cracks an octave on the same line he's heard hundreds of women use thousands of times.

"Yeah, yeah. Look, are we going to play Battleship or what?" Because he can't just stand there and watch her burn. Not again.

"You're not going to tell him, are you?" Totally exposed. She lays her heart in his cupped hands, ever so gently, and begs him not to let go.

"No." Because he did the same once. All these years later, you can still see the scars where it hit the ground. Besides...

"That's the Bro Code." But he has his work cut out for him, because none of the bylaws have feminine pronouns and she may just turn out to be the best bro he's ever had. Maybe, while he's at it, he'll write a new one, one that forbids fantasies about banging your bro quick and hard and dirty, especially when she's vulnerable.

Unless she's hot.


	9. Game Night

Fuck. Lily hits play and there's no stopping it now. It's a train wreck. Gruesome and bloody and excruciating and he wants to look away but he can't. Because there's the man he's spent twenty years trying to sleep into oblivion, bleeding and crying and he just can't take it anymore. He wrenches the tape away and runs. Slamming doors and stunned silence echo down the hall.

* * *

Back to the bar, a funeral march. His latest conquest tastes like despair and bittersweet, hollow victory. Too little too late. He's fucked good and proper now, because he can't keep pretending, can't hide her any longer. She's out in the open now and so is he. Totally exposed. He's going to have to tell them, relive every agonizing second all over again. Fuck.

At least something good will come of the night. He has a plan. Ted is going to tell the Re-Return if he has to flay open every square inch of his still throbbing heart. He's not the only one that's burning and it's bros before hos and Ted can't comprehend how parading the Cupcake around is a cardinal sin. The Bro Code forbids him from telling her himself.

Deep steadying breaths and a stiff upper lip. He sits down and starts pulling strings. A tweak here, a twist there, a well-timed sigh. Because there's no avoiding it. That little part of him he tries to ignore is already writhing and screaming and he just wants to curl up and die but at least something good will come of it. Because he can still save her and she needs to hear the Re-Return. Eventually, she does.

A deep, steadying breath and he stands up. "Ladies. Gentlemen. Ted. This has been a wonderful evening. I got great dirt on all of you guys. I got Ted to tell the Re-Return. I _finally_ nailed Shannon. Told her I'd call her tomorrow. Yeah, right!" Their eyes meet and she's laughing with her whole body, that unique blend of pride and disgust. Now it's worth it. Every second. "And I rediscovered just how awesomely awesome my life is. Peace out hombres."

Cold wind hits him, smelling of coffee and Shannon and pain. He's clinging to her smile like a dying man, telling himself it's all worth it just for that, but he's still bleeding. Fuck.

* * *

The phone rings. 3 AM. She's asleep on the couch in her favorite pink pajamas, hockey re-run playing in the background. He's sorry, but Ted is busy and Lily will say "I told you so" and he wasn't sure who else to call. Maybe it's the static or maybe it's the shots, but she's having a hard time understanding him.

4 AM. MacLaren's is empty. Carl is stacking chairs and he's slumped over a table in the corner, head in his hands. She pays the tab and slips her arm around his waist, staggering a little under the unexpected weight. He won't meet her eyes. Before she realizes she has no idea where to direct the cab, he's asleep, curled up on the bench with his head in her lap.

5 AM. His suit drapes carefully across the back of her couch, blanket tucked up under his chin. She brushes the tousled hair from his eyes and turns off the light.

11 AM. She walks into the empty living room with two cups of coffee. Maybe it's a dream after all. But she knows it isn't, because there's a Cuban and her carefully folded Canucks t-shirt, laying on the end table, and the blanket still kind of smells like him.


	10. Nothing Good Ever Happens After 2 AM

Dead eyes, fake smile, and a forced hello. Wind cuts through her coat, chilling to the bone, but she makes no move for the door and neither does he. She's sorry to bother him but he never seems to be working anyway and –

He cuts her off. He knows all about it and he's sorry too. Because Ted's an ass and he's missing out. His eyes are blazing and he looks like he wants to hit something. Hard.

She almost cracks a smile. The real reason she called is Lily, whose mouth says Ted is wrong but whose eyes say it's all her fault. She's already guilty and hurting and used and she can't handle any more blame. Besides, this is his area of expertise.

He looks down sharply, upset. He manipulates a lot of women, does a lot of revolting things, but Barney Stinson is _not_ a cheater. He looks up and she can see the laughing ghost of Shannon in his eyes. Now she understands his pattern, walls and one night stands and graceless exits. He does the lying and the leaving because she lied and left him all those years ago and he learned the hard way that love hurts. She's sorry she said anything. A pause. He bums a cigarette. She bums a light. Silence and smoke rings.

Shame boiling in the hollow pit of her stomach mutates and multiplies. Because she knows he's drowning and she just pushed his head under the water. He pulls a quarter from behind her ear and it disappears in a shower of sparks. He shrugs. She laughs in spite of herself.


	11. Best Prom Ever

Lily's words drop like dead weight, her face falling with them, and no amount of backpedaling can fix something so far beyond repair. The air is thick with tension. His reaction is instinctive, a reflex. It's his job. Disarm. Distract. Diffuse the situation. Ever since he was a child.

"Wow, that was really awkward Lil. And still, it's still really awkward right now." She deals a scorching glare and a sharp blow to his shin. Maybe he's a little rusty. But she's teetering on the precipice and Ted is pondering his nail beds. Take two.

"Hey, what about me? What's my job? What do I get to do?"

"Okay. Your job is very simple. At the wedding, do not sleep with anyone even remotely related to me."

He chuckles, glances right. The dregs of her drink can't possibly be that interesting. Floods of guilt and hurt. The dams are about to break. He traces circles on her shoulder with his thumb, so gently even she doesn't notice at first.

"Lil, you know I can't promise that." A smile, a spasm of something like laughter. Close enough.

* * *

"I never got to go to my prom. We always had field hockey nationals in the spring." Teed up beautifully. He can't help himself.

"Bhuhhhuh. Lesbian."

"The cough is supposed to cover the lesbian." So there is some fight left after all.

"I'm trying to start a thing where the cough is separate."

He steps outside to make a call. Guy the guy guy has a florist who owes him a favor.

* * *

"Now you ladies look good, but your outfits are missing just one thing."

"No, Barney. This is as far as we're going to go." He can't stop smiling because she couldn't be more wrong. "I'm not showing any more -"

"Two beautiful flowers for two beautiful flowers." Because she's never been to prom before and there was no reason for him to buy a corsage last time.

* * *

The phone rings. 12:30 AM. He's sorry but he only has one phone call and he doesn't want to waste it, just in case Ted hasn't forgotten about Mary the Paralegal.

She posts bail for resisting arrest and grand theft turtle, but all he'll say when she asks about a hearing is, "Please." He knows a guy.

Merciless ridicule, no holds barred, and he wonders if he would have been better off spending the night in jail. But it's New Jersey and his cell mate had a neck tattoo.

She drops him off on a street corner and he walks the last three blocks to his building. She's already seen too much.


	12. Where Were We?

Something is different. The atmosphere, the energy, the way she carries herself. Something he can't quite put his finger on. Until he does. He lays a hand on her shoulder and it's obvious. The tension, the fear, the anger. All gone. "Aw, man. You guys did it, didn't you?" He corners her in the kitchen later, demands a high five. He does not condone monogamy, but she is the exception.

* * *

A shot because his world is crumbling. Lily and Marshall. He doesn't believe in marriage, in love, in the ethereal or the intangible. But they do. Lily and Marshall, living proof that hope and happy endings really do exist. But...Lily. Marshall. Separate entities. Is he right after all? Bile burns his throat and he's never felt so alone in his life. A shot as he tries in vain to put it all back together.

The cracks are still showing. Something is different. Missing. Life is a hall of funhouse mirrors and everywhere he turns the world is reflecting, but it's not the world he knows. It's garish, distorted, wrong. It's a world where he is right and hope is dead. Where Lily and Marshall is Lily. Marshall. A shot to blur the pain, bring it all back into focus.

There's no one to call. No one to talk to. They're so happy and Marshall is so... He can't intrude, wouldn't even know what to say. He's happy they're happy. Besides, it's not his place. Ted doesn't need a wing man. She doesn't need a fire hose. But he still needs them. They leave no man behind, but here he is, out in the cold, alone in the darkness staring into his own warped reflection. A shot to fill the void.

He double checks his target in the bar mirror. An eight, maybe. "A hundred dollars says when you turn around, I say wow." One piece at a time.


	13. Brunch

A knife through the heart. "Come on. You're not exactly the kind of friend parents want their kids to have." Blood everywhere. Sticky and crimson, splattered across an empty table. Eight years old, vanilla icing dyed a deep red. Happy Birthday Barney. Congealing on blurry faces, faded around the edges. Scorn filled eyes and disdainful stares. James _is_ his brother, no matter what they think. Dripping from cold, ashen lips that mock him from afar, silently forming the words that haunt his dreams. His mother is an angel.

They're ashamed of him, both of them. Just like everyone. Just like his father. Ted, hiding him away like some kind of leper, to keep from infecting his perfect family and his perfect life. And her. She, of all people, should understand. She who sees him in ways no one ever could. But she is blind, shrouded by a haze of hope and happy delusions and a symphony in blue while he lays there bleeding out on the sidewalk, clammy hands still clutching the hilt.

Pain roils in the darkness, scalding to the touch, until it's all too much. It erupts, a tidal wave, decades of pent up anger and fear and hurt and shame. He'll show her. He'll show all of them. "Oh, yeah? Then I guess those shoes aren't the thing you're most wrong about today."

He can be everything they want him to be, funny and charming, pious and kind. That was him once, before...no one wanted him then, not until he became what he is, but he can be that man now, can be that man again. "What is the matter with you? I'm his girlfriend and I'm not even trying that hard. Way to wreck the curve, kiss-ass." If only she knew.

His back against the wall. Wounded, defensive. He lashes out a massive paw, hooked claws breaking the skin. Blood for blood. "Robin, I'm his best friend. That's a commitment. Girlfriend? That's like a bad flu. Out of your system after a couple weeks in bed." Those words will come back to haunt him in the specter of a smoking gun, when she's the one that's bleeding and it's his face dusted with blowback, showered in a warm, gentle mist of sticky crimson.


	14. World's Greatest Couple

**Just to avoid confusion, the part of the story after the break is something of a flash-forward, with a little bit of foreshadowing for another, really fun flash-forward still to come. Thank you so much and happy New Year! Please enjoy.**

He only has one rule. Don't change anything. Living in limbo, a world where time stands still and men don't age, where fleeting joys stretch into eternity.

An impossible feat. Walking the wire with no net, falling, falling without ever touching the ground. Because he learned long ago that bad things come in pairs and change is never good. People leave and dreams implode and eventually the ground comes rushing up to meet you with a gentle kiss goodnight. The solution is simple. Don't change anything. Defy death and time, gravity and physics.

He lives in a state of suspended animation. Suits and scotch and one night stands because they're comfortable and safe. No risk. No pain. No heartache. Fleeting joys stretching into eternity.

Until Lily topples his carefully erected edifice. Now he's falling, falling with no net to save him from the crushing grips of reality that race forward to meet him. Because in limbo he doesn't think, doesn't feel, goes through the motions and to hell with the consequences. It's not like they'll ever come to anything. He catches the wire just in time.

"You were supposed to be the vaccine, but you gave me the disease. You've got to go."

"Barney...I don't think you're mad at me. You're mad at yourself. You let your guard down and let someone in and it actually felt okay. And that terrifies you." His fingers are slipping, slick with Lily's truths and his doubts, with longing for a life outside limbo. But he can't let go, not now, with a yawning expanse of unknown looming in the shadows below and no one there to catch him.

"Uh huh. You've got to go."

* * *

He only has one rule. Don't change anything. Then comes the night she awakens something dormant within him and he's never wanted anything more than to escape from his prison outside reality. Hanging from the high wire, fingers slick with sweat and love and longing. She's waiting to catch him. But he just can't do it. He can't let go because he only has one rule and dreams implode and people always leave.

Eventually she does too. When he can't hold on any longer, it's not her but the ground that comes rushing forward to meet him in a sickening crunch of broken bones and shattered hearts. He drags around the pieces in a white plastic trash bag, lost and searching, explores a strange, shadowy new world to which he's never belonged. He stitches his heart back together, tries to re-mount the high wire and falls again, harder this time. But nothing breaks and nothing bleeds.

So he dusts off his suit, straightens his tie, and goes to wait beneath hers instead, standing sentinel. She's clinging to the wire like it's the only real thing left in the world, terrified of the yawning abyss that looms in the darkness, terrified of letting go. She's already hit the ground one too many times. She's broken and bleeding and she just can't do it anymore.

He only has one rule. Don't let go. And he breaks it, time and time again, breaks it until it breaks him too. Because she is the exception and this time he will be there to catch her when she falls.


	15. Swarley

Swarley. It echoes, down the rabbit hole into his past, echoes in a cramped locker as the door swings shut and darkness engulfs him. Houdini, they called him. Houdini. And they wanted to see his greatest trick. A combination lock, to make things a little more interesting. Swarley. It echoes in the deserted hallway, mingling with cruel, cold laughter and the shrill cries of a scared little boy that no one can hear. "It's not funny. It was never funny. I never did anything!" The door swings shut.

* * *

C13. Miss. They play Battleship because Ted has to work and Lily and Marshall are busy making up for lost time. She's missed him. Simple. Easy. No pressure and no expectations. No need to hide who she is or change to fit the mold of the perfect woman, the perfect girlfriend. His greatest trick. She's almost forgotten what it feels like.

Pickles jumps onto the sofa, nuzzles under his arm and into his lap, proceeding to lick the underside of his chin vigorously. He chortles, scratching behind the ears and around the collar. Playful yips and her laughter mingling with his own. Easy.

Swarley and Me. Crazy eyes. Jerk nails. Roland. The first few bars of "I am Woman." A7. Hit.


	16. Slap Bet

He can't look away. Totally transfixed, jaw hanging by a thread and oblivious to everything around him, struggling to wrap his head around the enormity of it all.

How to reconcile the girl – open and giggling and naïve and carefree – with the woman she became – intriguing and witty and private and wry. In a weird way, it all makes sense. It's the eyes. Daring, wild, eager, free. Untroubled, unclouded, unguarded. He's seen that look before. Only once or twice. But, try as she might to hide it, the spark is still there.

He can't look away, because that look latches on to some part of him, long since forgotten and gathering dust. The little boy and the man he became. Honest and open and trusting and free. Shackled and shuttered and wary and wise. Tinted yellow and curling around the edges, but always a bit of that little boy at heart.

She catches him about to leave. Alone in the living room, a gentle finger lightly traces the silhouette of Marshall's knuckles against the warm, smarting skin.

SMACK.

Just hard enough to send the blood flooding back to his face. He had better be careful. If he carries on betting, he'll never find out where the really good stuff is hidden.


	17. How Lily Stole Christmas

He looks like hell. Pale and wan, eyes rimmed red. Barely able to stand but still soldiering on. He collapses in a fit of illness, lays there, helpless, like a marionette whose strings have been cut. She has to bite back a laugh because it's all so ludicrous. Here is the man who insists nothing can touch him, felled by denial and a common flu.

She reaches down to pull him up, but he throws off her hands before either one is really standing. It smarts a little, but she understands. Because accepting help means admitting defeat, showing weakness. Even still...

* * *

A cup of tea, her mother's favorite cure-all. He's sitting out on the fire escape having a smoke, trembling so violently he can hardly put the cigar to his lips. Worry is a reflex and she just can't help how her heart starts pounding.

"Barney, what the hell are you doing? Get in here! It's freezing outside. Are you insane?" It takes every ounce of self-control not to grab his lapels and pull him through the window.

He blames Lily, but she knows that he knows that she knows better. This is pride and obstinacy and proving a point. In his mind, he's invincible. But only because he has to be, because it's easier to pretend than to admit the alternative. He doesn't need anyone. But only because no one has ever been there when he needed them. He builds a moat of machismo and most everyone drowns before they find out what sort of treasures he keeps hidden on the other side. She can see it all in the way he sits, folded on the couch, pale and trembling and firmly insistent that nothing is wrong. An open book.

"Oh Robin, my simple friend from the untamed North. Let me tell you about a little something I like to call mind over body. You see, whenever I start being sick, I just stop being sick and be awesome instead. True story."

Scoffing, she settles onto the arm of the sofa, braced for the long, elaborate tale she knows is yet to come. Her knee brushes his thigh. A flash of something like lightening. She jumps away as if burned.

"You see, in two minutes I'm going to pound a sixer of Red Bull, hop in a cab, play a couple hours of laser tag. Maybe get a spray-on tan. It's gonna be legen – wait for it –"

He tapers into gentle snores, somehow smaller, more innocent. A sick little boy in his daddy's suit. She bites her lip and tries to hide a smile. Blanket tucked up under his chin, she brushes the tousled hair from his eyes and walks back into the kitchen.

* * *

The door slams. "-dary." She's almost mad at Ted for waking him.

* * *

He wears his suits like armor, barbs of bravado to keep the world at bay. But, laying there in Ted's ratty t-shirt, he looks every inch the sick little boy. "I should be off playing laser tag right now, but instead...Don't look at me. I'm hideous."

He rolls away, curled up to protect the tender, exposed underbelly his dress shirt is always hiding. The vulnerability is endearing in ways she doesn't expect.

"You just look like a regular guy."

"Exactly. I'm a Ted. I'm wearing elastic waist fleece pants."

"And isn't it more comfy?" Maternal warmth she'd been sure was beyond her.

"Yes." He can't meet her eyes, just a little ashamed. Because she's never seen him like this. No one has.

"C'mon. You need to eat something." She proffers the soup. A familiar mischievous glint flashes in his eye.

"Too...weak...to hold...bowl."

"Fine. I'll feed you." A touch of exasperation.

Showers of soup. "Ouchy in my mouth." Her compassion is wearing thin. She rolls her eyes, takes a deep breath, and blows.

"I don't want it. I want ice cream."

A frustrated sigh. "No. You're not having ice cream for dinner just because you're sick." She's definitely never having children, and a little part of her wishes he'd put the suit back on.

"My throat hurts."

"No."

"I HATE YOU!" That's it. She doesn't have to take this. She turns to go, but clammy, quivering fingers clutch her arm. That little boy again, desperate and pleading. "Don't leave me." She couldn't if she wanted to.

* * *

His hands are still shaking. She fixes his tie and helps him back into his coat. The sick little boy vanishes. Barbs and bravado and nothing can touch him. She turns to go. Frozen by a small voice behind her, almost too quiet to hear.

Thank you.

She bites her lip and tries to hide a smile.


	18. Stuff

Rubber gloves and bleach. Up to his elbows in suds, Ted scrubs furiously, determined to destroy the evidence, erase the indelible, all the places she colors outside the lines on his blueprint of the One. She doesn't keep anything from past relationships except the baggage. And the dogs.

Acrid fumes burn the inside of his nose, the back of his throat, but he swirls his scotch and says nothing, watching the amber liquid eddy and flow. Because he knows Ted and he knows what happens next.

He will force her square peg into the round hole where he thinks she should fit, box up the bad and re-write her history. They are meant to be together because he means them to be together, no matter what it means for her.

"Well, what do you want me to do Ted? Get rid of my dogs?"

Yes. That's exactly what he wants. Not just the dogs. What they stand for. A past he can't erase, a blemish on his suburban nightmare, baggage that won't fit within the confines of his white picket fence.

Barney drains his glass and doesn't say a word. He knows her and he knows how this song ends.

She will squeeze her baggage into his box, force her square peg into the round hole where he thinks she should fit, bend and stretch as far as her fears will allow to mimic the chalk outline he has sketched out on the sidewalk. Because a little part of her is ashamed of everything he wants so desperately to disappear, because she doesn't believe anyone can embrace the bad and overlook the imperfections. Because no one ever told her she deserves so much more than someone else's ill-fitting dreams. But he doesn't say anything. It's not his place, because there was never anything for him to keep.

He needs another drink.

* * *

The phone rings. 9 AM. She's sorry, but she's bringing the dogs up to her aunt's today and Pickles wants to say goodbye. Silence. Something crackles and catches. The static or her breathing, he can't be sure.

Blazing eyes, jaw clenched, but she's too engrossed in gathering leashes and fending off tears to pay much notice. He asks to come with her, because she doesn't keep anything from past relationships and neither does he but it's not fair to make her do this alone.

Pickles hops into the front seat, nuzzles under his arm and into his lap, licking his hand mournfully and settling in for the ride. A hollow chuckle that rings in the silence. Scratching behind the ears and around the collar, he smiles a little sadly as the engine revs.

* * *

622 West 14th Street.

A stuffed beaver and a Canadian flag. A legal pad and a fading subpoena. Him. Her. Them. A past they can't erase, tucked away in a cardboard box.

They don't keep anything from past relationships. That's the official story, at least. But there's no trace of dust. Just three framed photographs. The one he kept on his nightstand. The one from his desk at work. And her absolute favorite, the one that used to appear every time the phone rang, the one still hidden beneath a sheaf of old briefings, in the bottom drawer of an unused filing cabinet with a red silk tie, a Cuban, and a rifled deck of playing cards.

She smiles a little sadly. Him. Her. Them. A past they can't erase, tucked away in a cardboard box. Waiting.


	19. Moving Day

Beautiful. Color floods her cheeks, warmth blossoming in the pit of her stomach. He uses a lot of words to describe women. Rankings, vulgarities, cup sizes. Sexy. Attractive. Hot. But never beautiful. She's not wearing any make-up and he's never used that word. Beautiful.

* * *

Standing in the middle of the street praying for a miracle, the glow of brake light. They're loading down a truck with hopes and dreams, a future together without him.

He rages at the night. Unseen. Unheard. Lost in the whistling of the wind. He has to do something now, before he's just that idiot, alone in the dark watching their taillights disappear over the horizon. Abandoned. They're slipping through his fingers. People always leave and he's going to lose them both forever.

He can't stop that truck with sheer force of will, so he does the next best thing. He steals it.

* * *

Looking back, it's almost ironic. Standing there in her kitchen with a box of pot lids, Ted thought she was the One. She didn't argue, even though deep down she knew it wasn't true. A little part of her had always known.

Because there's someone for everyone, a lid for every pot. Even the skeptics. The ones who don't believe, who go their whole lives convinced they don't need anything to complete them.

There he was, standing in her kitchen with eight pot lids and a sword, and she had nowhere to put them. As it turns out, his pots were hidden in Manhattan and hers had already met their match.


	20. Something Borrowed

If anyone asks, his tear ducts are overflowing with awesome and she has something in her eye.

He's not a romantic. Noting inside him is heavy with joy, content in the knowledge that all is finally right with the world. There is no pride, no relief, no warming of the heart. He isn't moved. Simply too awesome to keep it all inside.

He doesn't believe in love and marriage and happy endings, but he's glad that they found theirs. They deserve each other.

She doesn't cry at weddings. The ceremony isn't really that beautiful. Nothing stirs in unremembered places when they read their vows. There is nothing sweet or heartfelt or wistful. They're only being honest. She isn't moved. There's just something in her eye.

She's never getting married but if she does, she's hoping for something like theirs. The forever kind of love.

* * *

An outstretched hand. The night is almost over, and as the best man he has to dance with her. It's in his job description. A chuckle and a slight shake of the head. She's already going home with the six year old boy in the blue silk tie. There's something about a man in a suit. Mock indignation. A wry smile.

The dance floor is empty, couples streaming toward the door. One hand on the small of her back, one on the nape of his neck. Her other hand cradled in his, resting gently on his chest. He's sorry about Ted. A weak little smile, but at least the kid is cute. Better than he can do, anyway. A smirk and a single, raised eyebrow. He highly doubts that. The hottest girl in the bridal party just agreed to dance with him.

A spin, her dress fanning wide in a flare of lilac satin. He pulls her close, grinning, and she smiles with her eyes, still laughing, as they sway to the dying strains of some long forgotten song.


	21. We're Not From Here

He misses her more than he thought he would. Back home now, mere inches away, so close he can feel her breathe. He still misses her, because the woman beside him is only a warped facsimile of the one he's been waiting for. The woman who left for Argentina is not the same one that came back.

Heels on the block. Poised. The starting pistol rings out and she runs. No direction, no destination. Just her feet pounding the pavement and the wind in her hair. Trying to outpace the past.

Eyes close, arm outstretched. A dot on the map. Somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere but here. She finds solace on the white sand beaches, an escape from New York, from Ted, from reality. But something gets lost in translation. Somehow, in forgetting her sorrow, she forgets herself too. And he has to remind her because she has to come back home. He misses her.

"You haven't changed, Scherbatsky. You're a sophisticated, scotch swilling, cigar smoking, red meat eating, gun toting New Yorker." Reminding himself in the process, because her face is blurry and fading, her memory slipping away like water through cupped hands. Even her scent is different, all salt and sand and Spanish massage oil. It just isn't the same without her.

"What you are _not_ is a massage giving, windsurfing, bongo playing, teetotaling vegan peacenik hippie like your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend Gael. Back me up here, Ted."

"I'm just happy Robin's happy." He rolls his eyes because he knows it isn't true, but Ted is more concerned with her losing the break-up than with her losing herself.

She's hiding somewhere on a beach in Argentina. Toes in the water, head in the sand, trying to preserve an illusion that shattered on impact. If he could drag her back he would do it in a heartbeat. But this is her race to run. All he can do is wait at the finish line.

* * *

She slides into the booth, all scotch and smiles and cheap perfume. "Welcome home, Scherbatsky."

Piercing eyes dance in the fluorescent light. "It's good to be back." It just isn't the same without her.


	22. How I Met Everyone Else

"So, we know how Marshall and Lily met. Robin, how did you and Barney meet?"

She bites back laughter, swallowing air. Eyes boring into the side of her head, hanging on her every word. Her answer will speak volumes. He smirks.

"No...No...No."

Because that first night, five minutes before Ted walked in, she knew his type.

"No...No. No."

Because it's all so ludicrous.

"No. No. No. No."

Because he may just turn out to be the best bro she's ever had.

"No. No."

Because he does not condone monogamy.

"No...No..."

Because she's usually such an intuitive judge of character and she keeps getting blindsided.

"Barney and I are not together...No."

Because she doesn't believe he can embrace the bad and overlook the imperfections.

"No."

Because to him it's all a game.

* * *

Sixteen no's and an apologetic shrug. Before he knew he loved her. Before they broke each other's hearts. Before they were them, when they were scotch and cigars and late night phone calls, sixteen no's and an apologetic shrug.

But things are different now and he's a different man. He finally knows what he wants out of life. No more pain, no more heartache. Just something for him to keep. He doesn't believe in love, in marriage, in the ethereal or the intangible, but she is the exception. She's always been the exception.

Stony silence and bated breath. Her. That's what he wants out of life. Just her. His hands are trembling.

Step 16: Hope she says yes.

Because her answer spoke volumes. One no too many.


	23. Spoiler Alert

Sometimes he forgets he's allowed to want her again. It's been so long and old habits die hard. Denial is a reflex, as natural as breathing. Weeks of training. Lose focus and lose himself. Beaches, blondes, bimbos. Anything to keep from going there. Until now. Because if she was ever Ted's to begin with, she isn't anymore, and she's so hot when she's angry.

He never noticed it when she was off-limits, but now it's all he can think about. Aggressive, uninhibited, a little bit intimidating. Anything to be Ted right now, her bearing down on him with that look in her eye. Fiery and passionate and...

"I'm sorry. What?"

The make-up sex must be incredible.


	24. The Platinum Rule

**Hello, lovely readers. Sorry it's been slow, but I'm prepping to leave for school again tomorrow so it's been hectic. Speaking of which, updates will be less frequent now that Winter Quarter is beginning. Never a dull moment in the life of a physics major and my schedule is packed. I don't know yet quite how much time I'll have, but I promise a minimum of two updates a week. Hopefully many, many more. It all depends. On the plus side, I've already written half of "Tick, Tick, Tick" and I'm cautiously optimistic about doing justice to the episode's complicated, tragic beauty. So please hang in there and thank you all so much! Enjoy :)**

It's mainly a matter of convenience. There's not much room on the couch and he has the popcorn. She's never seen this movie and from the armchair there's a glare. Lily and Marshall are cuddling and she doesn't want to get in the way. Besides, it's familiar.

Arm draped nonchalantly across the booth behind her back, drink in hand, night after night. This isn't much different. Arm hanging off the edge of the sofa, drink in hand. He's splayed sideways to make room, legs pressed against her side. She is surrounded by him, the smell of butter and beer and his cologne. Comfortable. Natural. But it's just because he has the popcorn.

Ted recounts the date that was never a date. Shaking laughter and knowing looks. Speaking without saying a word. Easy, like always.

A little girl, alone in a darkened room. The closet door creaks open behind her and...

A warm hand brushes her shoulder before she can let out a gasp. An imperceptible lean forward, his body curling protectively around her in a slight, instinctive spasm.

She relaxes into the couch, head resting on his thigh. Enveloped in the soothing scent of salt and smoke and his cologne. Popcorn, please.


	25. Ten Sessions

**A completely arbitrary observation: Robin makes the same face (a little smile, biting on the inside of her bottom lip) in this this first scene ****as she does right after Barney proposes, before she accepts. Could just be Cobie Smulders trying not to laugh, but I thought I'd share. Please enjoy!**

A studious examination of her beer bottle. It takes every ounce of willpower not to smile.

"I went down there and checked her out for myself. Yeah. And while I was down there, I discovered that she has a secret. A terrible, terrible secret." He's insane. Extravagant. Outrageous. Eccentric. The good kind of crazy.

He told her the plan and she said it wouldn't work, but now she's not so sure. He weaves a tale like a tapestry, all deft hands and colorful misdirection. Eyes alight, oozing charisma. She knows the truth and still believes him.

"What? What is it?"

"Hold on. I gotta pee." The ghost of a smile, chewing the inside of her bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. Endearing antics, the perfect antidote to a miserable day.

"Ok. I'm back." A casual turn to face her, leaning in. "What's going on at work?" The way he looks at her with those piercing eyes, as if she is the only person on Earth who matters. A meaningless ploy perfected with years of practice, but something inside her still melts into a puddle on the linoleum.

* * *

The phone rings. 3 AM. The voice on the other end slurred with sleep and champagne, vague fragments strung up in some semblance of a question. Crackling silence. No explanation. No exposition. Just three words. Thank you, Ted. A click. Delirious with exhaustion, stumbling, searching for a reason in the long, low tone of a line with no one listening.

A black tie hangs off the foot of the bed, red dress forgotten in a pile on the floor. A quiet moan. He glances down with half a soft smile. She's asleep, arms around him, head on his chest, legs tangled in his. A cascade of tousled curls obscure her face, lips parted in a sleepy smile. Somehow more beautiful than ever.

Her heartbeat a like a lullaby, slow and even, body radiating heat. Lost in the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing, in a peaceful, easy contentment. Because she said yes and she's finally his to keep. Forever. He skims her forehead with a kiss and lays his phone back on the nightstand.

She nuzzles his chest, mutters something unintelligible, and tightens her embrace. He brushes the hair from her eyes. Another gentle kiss and a silent prayer of thanks. She said no over and over and over again. If it weren't for Ted, he'd still believe that could never change. But he was wrong. And all those no's don't mean a thing because tonight, she said yes.


	26. The Bracket

She walks through the door and his heart skips a beat. Turning heads in that dress from the window, the one he said she'd look stunning in. Those loose, cascading curls she knows he loves. Their eyes meet. Smoldering with seductive defiance, speaking without saying a word.

Want it? Come and get it.

Daring him to try. Daring herself to resist.

Challenge accepted.

She asked for it, begged to play the part. All to see the look on his face when she walked through that door. She's toying with him, but she asked for it and she's going to get it. All of it. He'll take it easy because he likes a fair fight and she doesn't stand a chance. She sits down at the bar. Game on.

"Hey there. How are you doing?"

"Fine, Barney. I mean...fine, stranger." Dissolving in a fit of giggles. He can't help but smile.

"Wow. You really are awful at this, aren't you?" Fingers trace a tingling trail. Caressing the soft, exposed skin. Higher. A little higher. Just a little higher. Because she asked for it.

"Get your hand off my thigh, Barney." Sweet and smooth, an octave too high. He's missing something.

"It's supposed to look like we're about to hook up, Robin."

"You know, I'm curious. What do you say to these girls to get them to come home with you?" The change in her voice betrays her. Low and even, soft and familiar. He understands now. She wants him.

She wants him, but she won't let herself go there. Because any girl who gets involved with a guy like him should know what she's getting into. She's not that kind of girl, but she begged for a chance to play the part. A beautiful stranger, a sweet, smooth voice, alone at the bar. Seduced by the man in the suit and the smile. That kind of girl, who knows and just doesn't care.

The crash of shattering illusions. He can hear it in the fall of her voice. She can't tell he wants her too. It's just supposed to look that way.

"Usually, I just lean in and whisper this one thing in their ear." Disbelief in those blue eyes. She's not playing anymore, but he still is. Warm, wet words. Scotch and cigarettes and his cologne. Because she asked for it and she's going to get it. All of it. She's not that kind of girl, but it's not that kind of game. Not anymore.

Someday, she'll realize. He just has to wait for it.


	27. Sandcastles in the Sand

**If you re-watch this episode in the near future, pay attention Robin's eyes in the last five minutes or so. The way she looks at him makes my shipper heart melt. In this scene, but especially when she first turns on the video and in the very last cut of them together before they kiss. Personally, I think part of her knows she loves Barney this night in the bar, and Barney was in love with her long before he ever told Lily. Sorry for rambling. Please enjoy!**

The phone rings, but he doesn't answer. Drowning in a storm of slurred Arabic, one sentence blurring into the next. He only catches every third word. Either this man can't buy the Robin Sparkles video or he just offered to sell his youngest daughter. There's no way of knowing for sure.

He hangs up, massaging the bridge of his nose, and glances down in time to watch her fade from the screen, doubled over laughing. A stolen moment recaptured every time she calls. She doesn't leave a message. No need. He knows where to find her.

Alone in the booth, shoulders hunched and face obscured, swilling the last dregs of her scotch. "All right, I can't find your video. I wasted three days tr–" Words die in his throat, because she's wiping away tears and suddenly nothing else matters.

"What's the matter?" Red rimmed eyes won't meet his own. A pause.

"Simon dumped me in his van after the show." A non sequitur. Flickering impatience. That's not important right now, because she's hurting and he's never seen her like this. No anger, no fire, no fight. Small and vulnerable and broken.

"Yeah, Robin. That was like ten years ago."

"No. Tonight."

"Ooooooh, really?" He chuckles. It's just so ridiculous. She looks away, chewing her bottom lip and collapsing inward. "Ohhohhhohh. Oh. Come here." Shaking her head. No. No. She's doesn't need help. Trying to hide the tears with a trembling hand, but he wraps an arm around her shoulders and she falls into him. "Come here."

So heartbreaking he feels a little ill, but he can't stop smiling. She doesn't see the irony. Strong and independent, intelligent and poised. Witty and warm, challenging and so very beautiful, even now, crying over a man too stupid to realize what he's missing. He isn't worth her tears. She was too good for him at sixteen, and now...she deserves so much better.

* * *

His arms around her, one hand cupped in his, sobbing into his lapels. Something in the way he holds her, solid and safe. Nothing can hurt her and it all comes pouring out.

"It's just, when I was young I was so...vulnerable and open to things, you know. And...I guess...I just wanted to feel that way again. I wanted to be sixteen again." When life was a mystery and love was a game. Simple and easy. When nothing broke and nothing bled. Boy meets girl. No rules, no reservations, and no regrets.

She got her wish. Here she is, sixteen again and heartbroken. She thought she'd changed but some things never do. Never a reason for anyone to stay, never worth the time, and why should this be any different.

But it is and she knows it, because he's spent his whole life running and here he is. No agenda. Just holding her while she cries.

"Robin...that is the stupidest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth." Something in his voice, in the familiar comfort of her body wrapped in his. Blossoming warmth and a watery grin.

"You want to be sixteen again? I've watched your first Robin Sparkles video a thousand times. And it's not because I'm proud of you as a friend. It's because you were totally, totally lame back then." Smiling in spite of everything, because there's something about him. She can't help herself.

"But now? Come on, PAKOW. You are the most awesome person I have ever known. Well, second most awesome." She chokes out a laugh. The crushing weight in her chest disappears in a swell of affection. Washing the pain away with twinkling eyes and a brush of his hand. Healing the cracks with a feeling she can't quite comprehend.

"Right. Of course. The first being you." And it's true. Because somehow he always know just what to say. All the right words and his arm around her shoulders. Solid and steady and nothing to fear.

"No. No. The first is this guy who lives in a place called the mirror. What up?" She can't look away. Adoration and amazement and something more.

"I'm saying that you're way more awesome than Simon will ever be." There's something about him, something she can't quite put her finger on. But she's dreading the moment when she's alone in the booth and he's not there to keep the hurt at bay. She can't do this without him.

"Barney, do you want to come back to my place." He needs to know and she needs him.

"Your place?" She leans in. Warm, wet words. Salt and scotch and cheap perfume.

They hail a cab. She curls up on the seat, his arms around her and her head on his chest.


	28. The Goat

Soft light and strung out silence. Every second a lifetime in bated breath and trepidation. Waiting. Because she can still feel his body pressed against her. The tattoo of his heartbeat. Arm draped like an afterthought around her waist, fast asleep. Breaking every rule. Sincerity and spooning and spending the night. Time stands still. Waiting. Waiting for him to show his hand.

"In my experience, the way this normally goes is...we lay here for a while, make a little awkward chit-chat..."

"Check." Tightness in her chest and a lump in her throat.

"Then I make up some cabinet meeting, heart surgery, rocket test flight I've got to be at, slip out of the apartment, and never call you again." Tinged with melancholy and heart wrenching truth.

"And later at the bar, you tell your good friend Robin the story of your latest conquest and she thinks to herself, 'Who is this sad, self-loathing idiot who climbed into bed with Barney Stinson?'" A stranger in her skin. Guilty for not feeling guilty. She should hate herself more, hates that she doesn't. Bittersweet contentment and bated breath. The tattoo of his heartbeat and his body pressed against her.

"Actually, you usually say that out loud." Honest and easy, just like always. The tightness is gone. She's not going to lose him. The phone will ring because some things never change.

"So, I just slept with my best friend's ex-girlfriend." Finality in his words. It wasn't a dream after all.

"And I just slept with my ex-boyfriend's really good friend." A smile she can't suppress. It's not supposed to feel like this. Warm and wistful and something else she can't quite comprehend.

"Best friend." Some things never change and he is one of them. Scotch and suits and one night stands. Here today and gone by morning. She doesn't have a choice.

"Okay. Here's the deal Barney. The second my feet touch the ground, this never happened." Piercing eyes and a punctured soap bubble. It's not supposed to feel like this. Hollow. A dull, throbbing ache she can't quite explain. Part of her hoping he'll beg her to stay.

"Okay...This never happened. It's a good plan." This never happened. Never happened. An echo in the emptiness.

"Now we go back to exactly the way things were before." Because she's not that girl and he'll always be that guy. It's no use pretending. Some things never change.

"Okay." One last chance, but he doesn't say a word.

"Okay." Deep, steadying breaths. It takes everything she has to leave him behind.

* * *

Smeared mascara on a suit that smells like her. Wherever he goes, she follows. A whisper on the wind, alive in every word. It never happened. Never happened. As if saying it will make it true, will help him forget. But he can't. She follows him everywhere.

He's good at pretending but there were always cracks in the mask. Fooling others but never himself. Never her. He can't pretend this time because the guilt is eating him alive. Guilty for not feeling more guilty, hating that he doesn't hate himself. A shattered mask he can't keep holding together.

And then there's her. Swirling scotch and sarcastic smiles. A master at work. She washed away the memories with the smell of his cologne, said the words again and again until she believed they might be true. It never happened. Never happened. If he hadn't known, he couldn't tell. But there's a difference. He's lying to the others. She's lying to herself.

Ted appears and there's nowhere to run. Trapped between the two of them. The mask is crumbling and he can't hold on much longer. Her hand on his back in small, gentle circles. Steady and soothing, she knows he can do this. He's lying to the others and she's lying to herself, but they're in this together. The two of them against a world that won't understand. Because even though it never happened, she follows him everywhere and her sheets still smell like him.


	29. The Rebound Bro

It's not the same without him. Too quiet, mellow with a touch of melancholy. Laughter a little forced. Sad smiles and an empty space where his chair should have been.

None of it makes sense, the reaction she got or the story he told. More questions than answers she knows but doesn't care to admit. She can't shake the feeling that something is missing. "Let me ask you something, Ted. Why are you so much madder at Barney than me?"

Coddling and condescension and a glimmer of pity when they mention his name. As if she's the victim. As if she hadn't wanted it too.

Always there when she needs him. Safe in his arms, solid and steady, she's never alone. She lost it for one night. In one night, he lost everything. It doesn't make sense. It should be her instead.

"You know, I think I'd actually prefer it if you were mad at me. This is too weird."

"I'm not mad at anybody. I've forgiven you and I've outgrown Barney as a friend. It's that simple." But it isn't. All Ted saw was the betrayal, not what happened next.

Shot glass and a half empty bottle, slumped over the bar with his head in his hands. Alcohol brings out the truth in his eyes and his pain still follows her everywhere, filling the empty space where his chair should have been.


	30. Everything Must Go

**My intention was to edit the second scene in the same manner as the first to make the parallel phrasing in the quotes more obvious, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Hopefully it's not too much. Please enjoy!**

He should have known better. People always leave and nothing lasts forever. But some things never change and Ted is one of them. Denial and delusion and demanding Stella is the One, until it all falls apart and the next One comes along. Fooling himself into a lie he calls love, forgetting his friends in the process. Abandoned for the futile pursuit of an impossible dream. Love does not exist and learning how to live is leaving before they ever get the chance. Ted never listens, but he should have known better.

Fury that burns like fire and feels like pain. Light blue sweaters and fake lenses in a thick black frame.

"Hey, Ted. Fancy bumping into you here." Carefully choreographed. Left behind, but he will not just disappear.

"Abby and I are in love." All the lies and the biggest first. Impossibility, illusion, and fleeting insanity. Words light with levity and laden with truth.

"Okay, Barney. You can stop."

"Stop what, Ted? Stop being in love? Next he'll ask us to stop breathing." Playing a fool for the fool to see. Living on a lie he calls love, too afraid to breathe deep and face reality.

"Barney, I see what you're doing. Please stop." But he doesn't, because Ted never listens.

* * *

No forethought. No hesitation. Just a vision of her future without him and a surge of adrenalin that burns like whiskey and feels like fear.

"She can't go home with you, Nick." He doesn't have a plan, but he has to do something. Any longer and he'll lose her forever. All the truths and the biggest first. "Robin and I are in love."

A feeble recovery. Desperate to make Nick understand, to make her forget.

"Barney, look, I know what you're doing. Please stop." But she doesn't and at this point, neither does he.

"I love her, Nick." Fooling himself into thinking it wasn't true.

"Look, he doesn't love me. He's just saying this because he thinks tha–"She doesn't believe him and the words come tumbling out. He has to make them see. He needs her.

"I love everything about her, and I'm not a guy who says that lightly. I'm a guy who has faked love his entire life. I thought love was just something idiots thought they felt." Denial and delusion, too afraid to breathe deep and face reality. He should have known better.

"But this woman has a hold on my heart that I could not break if I wanted to. And there have been times that I wanted to." Coffee and caramel mingling with the sickly sweet scent of dying flowers. Disbelief in those piercing blue eyes. If he looks now, he is lost forever.

"It has been...overwhelming, and humbling, and even painful, at times, but I could not stop loving her any more than I could stop breathing." Baring his soul for the world to see, his reason for being. She is the best of him.

"I am hopelessly, irretrievably in love with her. More than she knows."

The irony doesn't strike him until later. All those years, he was teaching Ted how to live.


	31. Miracles

Her heart stops. Ted's mouth is still moving, forming words she cannot hear. Deafening silence, blood pounding in her ears. Black spots on white walls, hollow and dizzy, a little bit ill. All of him in a flash.

His piercing eyes and that devilish grin. Scotch and smoke and his cologne. Always a laugh and all the right words. Familiar. Easy. Something she can't quite explain. His arm draped across the booth behind her back, drink in hand, night after night. Around her shoulders, solid and steady. Sprawled on her bed, panting, in a tangle of sheets. Sprawled in the street, blood pooling on the pavement.

No. No. A lump in her throat, his broken body is etched in the darkness when she closes her eyes.

Two hours in the waiting room. Surgery. They say he'll be fine.

He'll be fine. He'll be fine. Over and over and over again. Whispered like a silent prayer.

Larger than life. His suit is his armor and nothing can touch him. Never give up or back down from a challenge. Especially not this one. Just wait for it. He'll be fine.

The doors swing wide in a flash of silver. Blue scrubs and a clip board. Brow furrowed, mouth a grim line. He'll be fine. The nurse clears her throat and reads his name. Black spots on white walls. He'll be fine. Heart pounding, hands sweating, just a little bit ill. He'll be fine. He'll be fine. A silent prayer, a desperate plea. Time stands still, caught in a second that lasts a lifetime.


	32. Do I Know You?

Smooth. Polished and practiced. His voice like a shield, hiding hurt or nerves or vulnerability. When it's all too much and he can't let it out, can't let them in, can't be himself a second longer. Armor and escape. It's almost like the one he uses to pick up women. Magic and misdirection. A smile, a dirty joke, and he's gone, lost in that voice and the man he's pretending to be.

She's missing something. Polished and practiced and far too kind, hiding behind the voice he wears like a shield.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Barney?" Hiding himself. Hiding from her. This that scares her most of all.

"I don't always want to be that guy. Sometimes I want to be someone you can have an actual conversation with."

Taut and low and rough around the edges. Painfully honest. Always so much more than he lets them see. Trapped in a role he's expected to play. Half a smile for the man behind the voice.

"Now tell me something about you that I don't know yet. Seriously."

* * *

Her eyes alight with passion and excitement. Something inside him warm and light and he's not sure when his happiness became so contingent upon her own.

"But I decided I'm not going to apply."

"Why not?" A little part of him already knows. Risk. Fear he might never have faced, but Lily pushed him in.

"Because I'm a joke. I'm just the scary news lady from some stupid local news channel." And he's just some womanizing idiot.

"Hey. We both know you're more than that." More than the sum of their parts. Their weakness, their failure, their past. If only she could see her like he does.

"Promise me you'll apply." A push, because she deserves this. Happiness. Someone to tell her she does. Maybe she deserves him, even if he doesn't deserve her. She makes him better, so much more than the sum of his pain.

"Barney, it's not as easy as – "

"Promise me you'll apply." Because anything worth having is worth fighting for. A perfect job. The perfect woman. She makes him better and maybe he can too. So much more than the sum of her doubts, if only she could see. Half a smile for the woman shackled by insecurity.

Better together than apart. Both cracked and crumbling, but they fit together in the broken places. Matching scars that no one can see. It's meant to be, if only he believed in that sort of thing. But he doesn't and he's content to wait a little longer.

Because love is like fate is like gravity. Inescapable attraction, impossible to fight forever. Sometimes all it takes is a little push.


	33. I Heart NJ

** The game described is Texas Hold'em. Here it is in a nutshell. As far as I'm aware, it isn't usually played with a wildcard, but with dealer's choice anything's possible. You're dealt two cards down (hole or pocket cards), a round of betting, then a card is burned (discarded) to prevent cheating and three cards are laid face up on the table (the flop). More betting. Another card is burned, then comes the turn (a fourth card face up). More betting, another burn, then the last card face up (the river). A player can use any of the seven cards (two in the hole and five on the table) to make their best hand. Hope that helps and please enjoy!**

Dealer's choice. Three up, two down, and two in the hole. The knave of spades and the two of hearts. A straight or bust, her fate in the river and turn. It's deuces wild, but she's never liked her odds and the bet's to her. He tells her to raise. She calls.

Thirty minutes to fold on a straight or bust. The stakes are high but he begs her to raise. Always the gambler, the knave of spades. Dealing hope. Betting broken dreams on a worthless hand. Her odds have never been good, all her life with the whole world betting against her. Thirty minutes for a chance to break even.

One to burn and then the turn. "Our top story tonight: the newborn panda at the Central Park Zoo got its first tooth today. I guess that makes her a...molar bear... Molar bear. Molar bear."

His voice in the silence. "I know it's scary to bet on yourself, but if you don't nobody else will."

He's seen her hand. Four up, two down. She knows his tells and he's not bluffing. All her life with the whole world betting against her until she did too, but his money has always been on her. Before the flop, all in on the two of hearts. Always the gambler, but it's not gambling if you know you're going to win.

Deuces wild and the hand is hers to make. Her odds have never been good, but he's seen the cards and there must be more to that two of hearts than meets the eye. She's never been a gambler but he's a safe bet. One more to burn.

Her money is on him and his has always been on her. "You know what? I really am done. Good night, New York." All in on the knave of spades as the last card falls.


	34. Intervention

Alone in the bar, just the two of them. She's ready to go and he's going nowhere. The others long gone, with so much left unfinished. Boxing a lifetime in mismatched china and bubble-wrapped memories, a second-hand sofa and nostalgia that clings like packing peanuts.

Pages turn, new chapters and a thousand stories yet untold. Moving out and moving on. A single, blank sheet of paper. Silent mockery in blinding white and a blinking cursor. Writers block or something more. Time stands still and the world spins on without him.

Pages turn. His cursor blinks. Stories end and nothing he says will stop them from leaving now. From leaving him behind, alone in the booth with fading memories and an ache that clings like cigarette smoke.

For now, it's still the two of them. Scotch on the rocks. Sad smiles and lingering laughter. Nothing and everything and anything in between. A night like any other, as if pretending will make it so.

Drinks are on him. Another round. And another. And another. Drowning daylight in amber waves and clinking crystal.

To the future.

Her future, that is. Turning pages and the rising sun, a thousand new adventures and a life she's always dreamed of. Not his. An empty booth and an empty glass, a lonely that clings like the smell of cheap perfume.

To taking chances.

Because he may never get another. Seconds are slipping away and the sun is rising and her glass is almost empty. All his courage in a swig of scotch and –

Last call.

She grabs her coat and one more for the road. Almost I love you, but the words catch in his throat and he offers to help her home instead.

* * *

Her suitcase is packed, the boxes all shipped. Holes in the wall and dents in the carpet that he can't rub away. Impressions of her are all that remain in a hollow shell that used to be a home. A vacuum, some spackle, and she'll leave without a trace.

More care to stay than will to go, he can see it in her eyes. So he calls a cab, brings the suitcase downstairs while she takes a long last look around.

Brisk winter wind and the sun peeking over the horizon. Her bag in the trunk and, for a moment, it's just the two of them, alone on the sidewalk. She doesn't say goodbye because goodbye sounds like forever. "One more for the road."

She pulls him in, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Head tucked under his chin, lost in his lapels. Surrounded by the smell of her. She pulls away and it's like her arms are still around him. Radiating heat and the tattoo of her heartbeat against his own.

Last call.

Half a watery grin. He tucks her hair behind her ear, cupping her cheek and brushing away tears.

"Have a safe flight." As close as he can get to please don't go.


	35. Shelter Island

**Sorry it's been so long. I took four days off to lead a retreat with my high school, so I had to front load a ton of school work and I just didn't have time. Thanks for your patience. Please enjoy!**

Burning in her throat like whiskey without a chaser. Hurting and angry, a little confused. Smugness, confidence, and self-righteous guilt. The Triple Threat. As if he'd pay attention. As if he'd understand. As if he'd listen to the words she said instead of the ones he wanted to hear. She should have known better.

But there's something about him. Ted has a way of breaking her down. Brick by brick, nothing more than a shamble of shattered resolve. He has a way of extracting painful truths and breaking them down too, until they're no longer truths at all. Because if Ted is always right she must be in the wrong. He hurls words like daggers with an icy stare. Almost a punishment for breaking his heart.

Burning in her throat that no chaser can soothe. Only him. The only one she wants to see. Scotch on the rocks and they'll talk until it all makes sense. Because he knows her and he knows Ted and he always knows exactly what to say. He has a way of making everything all right.

* * *

Tightening in her chest like the hand on her suitcase. Heart pounding. She can't breathe. Hurting and angry and suffocating a little more with every step. Bridesmaids, sluts, and strippers. The Holy Trinity. As if he'd be waiting. As if he'd be waiting for her. As if he'd be alone. She should have known better.

But there's something about him. He has a way of blinding her with flashes of humanity. Tender words and a gentle touch, bearing his heart for a moment and suddenly it's all she can see. Warmth through the wit and kindness in those piercing eyes. Honesty in the deception, loyalty in the lies.

Flashes of humanity. She's stumbling, black spots in the blinding white light. A glimpse of him. The truth through the mask makes the fall hurt all the more. Arms outstretched to break the crushing blow of reality. Suffocating with every step, gasping for air. She can't breathe for the tightness in her chest. Because he has a way of making her forget.

But he'll always be that guy and she plays the fool again. Some things never change.


	36. Not A Fathers Day

Alone at the bar. Scotch on the rocks and a sock in his hand.

A little blonde boy, a mop of messy curls, pudgy fingers clasped in the hand of a woman with tired eyes and a familiar face. Blue eyes glisten as the other boys laugh. He throws like a girl but it's the only way his mother knows how. Trembling hands a sticky crimson, razor forgotten on the floor and tissues won't stop the bleeding, soaked and stuck to a gash that will never quite heal. James just doesn't have the time to teach him. Under over over under. The gown is itchy and the cap is all wrong and he can't give a speech with a tie that looks like that. Mr. Nelson puts him out of his misery.

Loretta taught him to love a woman and Shannon taught him never to do it again. Robin taught him every rule has an exception but no one ever taught him how to live, that being in love was committing slow suicide and forcing yourself to watch. He had to learn the hard way.

Real men drank scotch and John Wayne smoked cigars but no one ever told him it would feel like fire going down, that smoke would sear and suffocate, that the burning lingered like a memory long after the liquor was gone. He learned to love the pain on his own.

His drink is almost empty and it's more than the scotch that's burning but no one ever taught him how to take it like a man. Still that little blonde boy, a mop of messy curls and blue eyes glisten, looking up from his glass for a man to look up to. He learned to shave, to throw, to tie his tie. He made it up as he went along. But some things he can't learn the hard way. Some things he can't pretend. He will never be a father. There was never anyone to teach him how. No child should suffer for his mistakes.

But there's a sock in his hand and it's all he can see. A little blonde boy, a mop of messy curls, pudgy fingers clasped in the hand of a woman with tired eyes and a face he doesn't remember. Somewhere right now, playing catch with his mother, with no one to teach him to throw a punch or stand up for his friends, looking up for a man who isn't there, a man still looking for someone to look up to. No one to teach him that love hurts and life is hard. Another lost boy, just like his old man. But he never calls so he'll never know, and some things never change.

Childless by choice. Like father, like son.

* * *

The phone rings. 2 AM. He doesn't say a word. Just her name. Practically pleading, two strained syllables, and somehow it doesn't matter what he wants. She could never say no.

2:30 AM. A karaoke bar on 5th. Empty glass and an empty orchestra, slumped over a table with his head in his hands. He doesn't say a word. She orders another round.

4 AM. Waiting for a cab, his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist. He can stand on his own but they both know he needs this even if he doesn't say so. She is here and he is not alone.

In the back seat in the darkness and finally he meets her eyes. Thrashing and writhing, burning and gasping and drowning in pain. She sees it all. He gives her the sock, looks down at his hands. A small, choked voice. A distraught little boy.

"I always swore I wouldn't...but somehow...I still became my father."


	37. The Fight

**Hi lovely readers. I know it's been ages and I'm so so sorry. Part of it is I've just finished midterms and part of it is this was a surprisingly difficult chapter to write. If you consider the over-exaggeration, reminiscent of "Lobster Crawl" (I'm mainly referring to the scene where she touches his eye; it seem purposely overdone) in conjunction with the way Robin reacts every other time someone beats the stuffing out of Barney (see "Nannies" and "PS I Love You"), it seems like she's got some sort of multi-layered denial going on here. She stops pretending she doesn't want to sleep with Barney because it's easier to play that up than admit she's worried, which carries far heavier emotional connotations. Even when Marshall tells her its a lie, there's a long pause and she gets this, "Oh, shit. This is bad" look on her face. I had the hardest time trying to capture that and I'm still not sure I did it justice, but I promise "Benefits" will be up later this week and it's going to be a fun one :) Please enjoy.**

It's the eyes. Soft and shining, flashing determination or something more. Fingers brush when he hands her his jacket. Grey merino like his eyes, soft and shining, like the hands of man who fights for everything but never like this. Bare knuckles, bare bones. Bare body, broken and bruised and bleeding. Lust, not worry, ties her stomach in knots as he walks out the door.

Hair disheveled, tie askew, brow furrowed gingerly. Seeping warmth swells with the roar of the crowd. Desire, not relief. It's the eye.

Laughing a little too loudly, and she can't help clutching his arm. Solace in a rippling tension that bespeaks latent strength, in all that he hides behind soft, shining silk and grey merino. Sexy, not settling. She knows exactly what she'd like to do to him.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. At least, it would have if she'd stopped to think about it. If she'd stopped to think at all. The sting of reality like a slamming door because part of her still believes it's a good idea. It's so much more than just the eye. That terrifies her most of all.

"Oh...oh, I forgot. Uh...tonight is no good. I, uh, I can't go to the hockey game tonight. I've got that, uh...that, uh...that, uh...that, uh...that...uh, that..."

Shutting the door on further contemplation because actions speak louder and she can't find the words. Head over heart. Her head says it's nothing, but her heart is pounding a staccato truth she doesn't want to hear.

* * *

The door slams shut and he's up against the wall with his shirt undone before he knows she's on him. Deft hands and passionate kisses, a swell of seeping warmth. It's the eye.

Jacket a pile on the floor. Grey merino, soft like the hands of a man who only fought for himself until the day he found something worth fighting for.

Satisfied silence and the seeping warmth of his body against her. Tucked under his arm, hers draped on his chest. It seems redundant. Actions speak louder and hers said it all, but words that don't need saying still need to be heard. Like an afterthought, whispered in the darkness, echoing the staccato rhythm of her heart.

"PS...I love you."


	38. Benefits

**I'm sorry. I know it's been ages and this one's so short, but it was easily the most difficult chapter thus far. Not sure how I feel about it, but I hope you enjoy. **

A man walks into a bar, into the opening line of some sick, cosmic joke.

"So I'm...I'm responsible for..." Words catch on a lump in his throat, strangled by the tightness in his chest.

"Excellent. Excellent. Excellent." Skipping like a scratched cd, the wires all crossed. Something in the information short circuits his brain.

The sting of their high-five like a slap across the face. Ted, holding the greatest thing he never had. Again. And it's all his fault. An empty suit and a halfhearted smile. Impenetrable armor. Protecting his broken heart. It's painfully ironic, almost laughable. And he would if he could but he can't. He can't even breathe.

* * *

It slips out. Hollow and spent, too tired to hold it in any longer.

"I love you." And it's true. Has to be. It hurts too much to be anything else.

"Exactly. He's not like you, you know. Besides, we're friends. I don't want to screw that up by getting involved. Dating friends never works out."

Misery framed in the doorway. Mocking silence laced with bitter laughter, a sick joke at his expense. That's one hell of a punch line.


End file.
